The Immortal's Unrequited Bride. Kelli Ireland

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СКАЧАТЬ Rowan’s muffled reply proved impossible.

      Sure, Ethan could have gone after him, asked the man to repeat himself. He could have argued a bit more. Or he could even have...found one of a thousand more ways in which to avoid the inevitable confrontation with the invisible woman.

      He sighed.

      Avoidance was no longer an option. Intentional evasion would only allow things to escalate and leave Ethan hiding behind the Druids’ proverbial skirts. And Ethan did not hide behind anyone’s pleats and folds, maxis or minis, round gowns or kilts.

      Taking a deep breath, he focused in the general direction he thought the woman stood.

      Or did she hover? Crouch? Float? Whatever.

      “This is going to be awkward, seeing as I can’t—” he gestured at the cascading sparks “—you know, see you. So I’ll just talk in your general direction and hope for the best.”

      A book flew from the shelf and careened off his shoulder. “Ow!”

      He spun away from the next book only to be pelted across the abdomen with the contents of the slag bucket from the hearth.

      Ash billowed around him and created ephemeral clouds, the dark mass ballooning as it was pushed toward the ceiling, driven by an unnaturally pernicious wind. The gritty residue destroyed his white shirt and khaki pants, covered his exposed skin and burned his eyes. Racked with chest-rattling coughs, he covered his mouth and nose as he tried to steal even a single deep breath.

      He needed to shut Sparky here down. Now. Her sparkler display had evolved from orange to a deep crimson. Ethan couldn’t envision a situation where that could possibly bode well.

      Pulling his shirt up over his lower face, he squinted through the worst of the fallout and moved forward. The gritty stuff was everywhere. That wasn’t what had his ire up, though. It was the idea that she’d come into his space in what had become his home and wrecked his stuff that thoroughly pissed him off. Not only that, but now there was this monstrous mess to contend with. He coughed, and the ash in his throat seemed to congeal. A second wave of ash rushed over him as the winds stirred with more aggression, whipping against his skin.

      Who the hell does this ghost think she is?

      Oh. Right.

      My wife.

      Ethan’s temper spiked. He’d reached his limit with this nonsense. Whipping his free hand out, he cupped his palm and made a scooping motion toward the ghost’s colorful display. He felt her. Felt the shape of her bare feet and ankles. Felt the grave’s chill countered by the hum of elemental magick coursing through her form. Felt the electrical charge that made her twitch and jerk in his grip. Felt the slight weight that powerful magick always carried, that touchable, tangible thing. And it was that weight, that substance of understanding, that confirmed she knew what havoc she could wreak and with minimal effort. His acceptance that she had to be sentient forced him to rethink how he approached her.

      Forcibly shedding the cobweb-like strands of temper that had woven around him and now clung with what seemed like pernicious intent, he tapped into the last of his tolerance. “I will afford you one chance to control your temper, woman. That chance is now.”

      The mirror above the fireplace gave an ominous, otherworldly groan, bowed outward and then shattered. Shards bounced off each other, the tinkling sound eerily similar to that of a thousand crystal flutes simultaneously toasting a single event.

      “Enough!” he bellowed. Tightening his ethereal hold on her feet, he nearly lost his tenuous control over her when the urge to caress her ankle stole over him. “Magickal manipulation,” he spat, “not authentic feelings.” A harsh twist of his hand to the right and he pulled her down, anchoring her where she stood. Holding his other arm out parallel to the floor, palm down, Ethan let loose the barriers he kept in place, barriers that held his earth magick at bay so he could live, think, breathe, even just exist without bringing about destruction. He was beyond thinking now, driven to respond. “Rise!”

      The stone floor, an extension of the element he controlled, responded by cracking and shattering in such rapid-fire succession his room sounded like a war zone. Rock and mortar heaved and blew apart, only to reform to Ethan’s will. He commanded the floor upward, drawing more and more stone to encase the unseen woman where he had pinned her struggling form.

      “Bind and hold,” Ethan breathed, infusing the word with intent, with elemental magick, as he curled his fingers into his palm. Made a fist. Melded the rock together to form an impenetrable, airtight, inescapable prison created by his will and his element. He wouldn’t have her waltz out of here without consequence.

      Materials continued to fly toward the column he created, exposing the castle’s wooden support beams as the rock adhered to Ethan’s orders and reformed, horizontal floor to vertical prison. And then a room appeared below—a classroom by appearances. Its occupants, students and instructor alike, could be seen through the dust. Shouts resounded as the young assassins in training—tyros—scrambled to avoid falling stone and other debris even as they adhered to their instructor’s shouted instruction to “Get out!”

      The instructor, Niall, was one of the Arcanum. Controller of the element of air, he thrust his hands out and used his element to deflect a large rock that had broken away and careened toward him. The assassin’s eyes narrowed and his lips began to move in what was, Ethan assumed, a summoning spell wherein he called his element to heel.

      Invisible though it was, the physical barrier the air created could be seen because of the thick dust on this side of the boundary and the clear space surrounding Niall on the other side. The world behind the artificially created wall shifted, papers blowing all about, as Niall commanded the air to lift him straight up and deposit him at Ethan’s side.

      Cool. The first of the cavalry has arri—

      Niall’s fist connected with Ethan’s jaw. The impact sent him lurching across the wrecked floor, where he slammed into a damaged stone wall. Bracing one hand against the windowsill, he shook his head and tried to clear his muddled thoughts.

      Didn’t see that coming.

      His concentration broke and the stones he’d been directing began to fall, creating a deadly shower. Rock ricocheted around him. Chunks large and small plummeted into the room exposed below. Larger stones took out the ancient wooden tables the tyros used as desks as well as the hodgepodge of both archaic and modern lab equipment, the podium Niall had lectured from and the computer that had been open atop it. Niall’s computer.

      Oops. Again.

      Smaller stones, mortar and personal flotsam from Ethan’s living room continued to fall through the floor and fill in voids until the classroom below looked as if destruction had rained, and it had been a torrential downpour.

      Ethan worked his aching jaw back and forth as he slowly straightened.

      Niall crossed arms sleeved with tattoos over his chest. “Ask me why I hit you and I’ll do it again.”

      Normally, Ethan would have poked at Niall simply because the man had a fantastic sense of humor. Today wasn’t a normal day.

      The door to Ethan’s room crashed open in a shower of splinters. The Druid’s Elder and the entire Arcanum, some with spouses hot on their heels, crowded the entrance, weapons raised.

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